RALEIGH - Probation officers often speak of hearing about a terrible crime and worrying whether someone under their supervision did it.

But in one of the Triangle's highest-profile killings in recent years -- the slaying of UNC-Chapel Hill student body president Eve Carson -- the reaction took a troubling turn.

Surveillance photos of two suspects stared out from newspapers, TVs and computer screens for several days and no one in local probation offices could put names to the faces even though they were two of their own.

Probation workers were still combing their files when Chapel Hill police learned the identity of the suspects -- Demario James Atwater, 21, and Laurence Alvin Lovette, 17. The Wake County probation office should have been particularly aware of Atwater. Attempts to revoke his probation were under way.

"All of us can look at 'what if,' " said Robert Guy, director of the state Division of Community Corrections. "At first glance, this is bad."

The inability to zero in quickly on the first-degree murder suspects exposes weaknesses in a state system that the public assumes rigorously checks convicts completing sentences outside jail.

The reality is different. Despite recent reform attempts, Triangle probation offices still grapple with heavy caseloads, high turnover, an information disconnect between the adult and juvenile courts, and archaic communications systems.

An internal investigation into the handling of the Carson-case suspects is due to wrap up this week, Guy said. But already, problems are evident.

Atwater, a Durham resident convicted of burglary, larceny, breaking and entering, and illegally having a gun, was handed off from caseworker to caseworker, possibly as many as eight in three years, Guy said.

Attempts to revoke his probation should have started last summer, Guy said, shortly after a Granville County conviction for illegal possession of a .40-caliber handgun, months before the November arrest warrant was drawn up.

The case should have been transferred from Wake County to Durham, where Atwater lived.

"The red flags occurred," Guy said. "We should have been tightening down the supervision."

There also were warnings about a system in overload, a system that four years ago was under the scrutiny of an outside consultant called in by the state legislature.

The 2,012 certified officers across the state oversee 128,000 offenders: 118,000 on probation, parole or other post-release supervision; and 10,000 in the Community Service Work Program.

The National Institute of Corrections, which did the 2004 review, found that equipment was antiquated, probation officers were underpaid, caseloads in some regions were high, officers were discouraged from trying to revoke probation, and vacancies stayed open too long.

Since then, the Division of Community Corrections has provided annual reports to the legislature, but many of the problems noted by the consultant persist.

Wake, where Atwater's probation officer was, and Durham, where Lovette was placed on adult probation in January, have some of the highest turnover rates in the state -- double the statewide rate in Wake County and higher than that in Durham.

In Durham County in 2007, probation officers assigned to high-risk offenders sometimes had 98 cases, well above the 60-case maximum set by state law.

High danger, low pay

An average caseload for Wake County officers assigned to the more violent offenders was 109 for at least half of 2007, nearly double the state standard.

"It's far too heavy to be able to effectively supervise," said Colon Willoughby, Wake's district attorney.

In Durham, Wake and Gaston counties, probation offices have had difficulty retaining officers, college graduates who can find higher-paying jobs with better hours and benefits. The work can be dangerous.

Probation and parole officers are expected to work odd hours, not only making home visits, but stopping in at job sites and other places their charges might be.

For much of their work, probation officers are expected to strap on guns and bulletproof vests and set out for the riskier streets.

They do drug testing in homes and at their offices. "You think it's a pleasant part of the job, collecting urine?" Guy asked.

Their salaries range from $32,000 to $50,000. The bulk of the division's officers have no more than five years of experience, Guy said. And because there is no mechanism for merit-pay increases, he added, most officers stay at the lower end of the range.

"The probation system in North Carolina is not broke," Guy said. "We've just got some needs. We've got good people, good policies."

In 2000, state corrections officials investigated Durham's probation department after an officer's pistol disappeared.

That review turned up other problems. In a couple of cases, defendants had gone five years without reporting to an officer.

Others showed that officers had failed to promptly tell supervisors about serious crimes committed by offenders while on probation.

Seven supervisors and five officers were disciplined after the 2000 Durham-based inquiry.

The internal investigation into the Atwater and Lovette cases should help Guy determine whether inadequacies festered.

"The investigation will assist us in identifying all the problems," Guy said.

Juvenile-adult gaps

Lovette's case highlights a fissure between the juvenile and adult courts that stymies the free flow of information about young offenders.

Lovette, who turned 17 in November, was committed in 2006 to a juvenile detention center, but his records from then are not available for public scrutiny.

Not even prosecutors in the adult courts have access to all juvenile records.

"I only get it if they're charged in adult court with a violent offense," said Durham District Attorney David Saacks.

Lovette, who was released early from detention, was charged in November with breaking and entering, and larceny in Durham. But because he was not accused of violent offenses, a prosecutor would not have access to the offenses racked up before his 16th birthday.

"I don't think there's a judge in the state who's going to let us look into a juvenile record for a property offense," Saacks said. "It's sort of like 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.' What happens in juvie stays in juvie."

The juvenile system was set up to give offenders under 16 a chance for rehabilitation, treatment and a clean slate that might keep them off a crime-ridden path.

Lovette was put under the charge of the Durham probation office in January after pleading guilty to two misdemeanors -- breaking and entering, and larceny for a break-in at a Hope Valley home.

It was unclear whether Lovette was supposed to be under the watch of a post-release officer from the juvenile system.

In the adult system, Guy said, Lovette met with a Durham probation office in court in January. Although he was assigned to the lowest level of oversight, Guy said, an officer should have visited Lovette's home within 30 days of the hearing.

It is during those visits, Guy said, that skilled probation officers should find out whether their new charge has a troubled past.

"The policy's pretty clear," Guy said. "It's not just sit in the office and let them come in."

Officers get no warning

Another question remaining about the two cases is how often the officers overseeing the suspects checked court records for charges levied during the probationary period.

No automatic warning signals show up on probation officers' computer screens when one of their charges is accused of another offense and entered into the database of the Administrative Office of the Courts.

"We don't get automatic feeds when a new charge pops up," Guy said.

Guy, who has nearly three decades of experience in the state's Division of Community Corrections, does not want his officers to spend all their time in front of a computer.

He wants them out where the offenders are, familiarizing themselves with their worlds, looking for risks and ways to keep them from adding convictions to their records.

Such close attention might ease the standing-room-only crowds that fill Durham, Wake and other county courtrooms on days when offenders accused of probation violations go before a judge.

Probation officers do not immediately move to revoke probation based on one positive drug test. Nor would they necessarily drag someone back to court for missing an office visit or restitution payments.

"We get criticized as much for sending people to prison as not sending them to prison." Guy said. "Our job is to try and help them, not put them back in prison."

But there are times, Guy acknowledged, when the public is better protected with a violator behind bars.

He refuses to respond to the what-ifs that Nancy Grace and other cable-news talking heads have fired his way since the Carson slaying. Lovette and Atwater stand accused, not convicted, of murder.

Even if the officers had done everything by the book -- which Guy readily admits did not happen -- it is impossible to speculate whether the suspects would have been behind bars on March 5, when Carson was found.

"That's a bad question, and that's an unfair question," Guy said. "When a tragedy occurs, it hurts. We beat ourselves up whether y'all are here or not."